In fact, I've found that in the last year, I've become less and less chatty. It's not that I don't have anything to say. I just prefer to listen. Especially with my parents.
Used to be, whenever I had to drive Dad to an appointment, or to CostCo, I'd make a point of controlling the conversation just to keep him away from the three deadly topics--religion, politics, and money.
But lately, I just get in the car and clam up. If Dad goes off on one of his religious or political rants, I simply listen, and maybe toss out a "yep" or a "right" every now and then. It's either that or end up screaming at him, not out of anger, but because that's the only way he can hear anymore. If I say something once, he'll say, "WHAT?" almost immediately, then I'll say it louder, and he'll say almost immediately again, "WHAT"! and then I just out and out yell whatever I said at him.
Kinda takes away the enjoyment of a good conversation.
Anyway, Dad had an appointment with the hearing aid specialist at CostCo this afternoon. Mom chose to stay home (after changing her mind three times).
Dad and I climbed into the jeep and set off on our way, about a ten minute drive, to CostCo. In keeping with my current trend, there was no conversation except for Dad's intermittent banging on the dashboard--his signal that he wants the heat turned up. Real subtle.
Then we passed by the big field where there is almost always a group of horses, mules, and brown and white cows grazing and roaming.
As we pass, Dad blurts out, "BLACK ANGUS! Look at those beautiful black angus! Those are black angus! Did you see those beautiful black angus??" He whacks me across the right upper arm with his left hand. (He does this all the time when he wants to punctuate a point. He thinks it's funny. And it is. The first time.)
And the thing is, the creatures he thinks are black angus......are mules. And since I'm feeling belligerent, I say, "No, those are mules."
"MULES!?" Dad recoils, appalled, unbelieving. "What do you mean MULES?!"
"Those are mules, Dad, not black angus." I'm calm, matter-of-fact, slightly smart-alecky.
"Why are they so black?" Dad's challenging me now. He does that a lot. Dad loves to press my buttons. He knows I prefer not to talk, so he needles me to make me do exactly what I don't want to do.
"They're BLACK mules." It's the best I can come up with.
Dad is silent.
We continue on, down Hendrickson Road, then I turn up Priest Road, which just happens to have a field on it where three big black angus steers are grazing.
I point them out to Dad, "THOSE are black angus." I'm smug. I'm a smart-ass. But it's been a long week trying to get Mom stable and I'm tired and not feeling very patient. Smart-ass is the best I can do. More importantly, I forget how well my father knows me. He may be 94, and stubborn, and belligerent, but dang if he isn't incredibly quick some times. This was one of those times.
As soon as I proudly point out the three black angus to him, he immediately comes back with, "Nah, those are black mules."
Smart aleck.
No comments:
Post a Comment